


Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Two

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Faith of the Seven, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Griff's anxiety about ruling grows as he faces some big changes and a confusing defeat. Jaime reunites with Brienne as well as some others he didn't expect. Griff names his kingsguard and his hand, and Arianne makes him a man.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Young Griff/Arianne Martell, Young Griff/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Wheel of Westeros [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Two

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Two**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

Varys had been right. Euron Greyjoy, self-styled king of the Iron Islands, and Queen Myrcella Baratheon (or more correctly her vile mother) were striking up an alliance. When Griff’s army clashed with Lannister troops at Highgarden, they were driven back east – not because the battle wasn’t well-fought by the men. Griff’s army gained the upper hand very quickly, and it had seemed like Ser Loras Tyrell and Lady Olenna would have their home back. But just as they were about to triumph, a strange note sounded as from a pan pipe, and the Lannisters turned and fled back toward the castle. It made no sense – they were just trapping themselves. The Golden Company had breached the walls and the Mander ran red with lion blood already. Then suddenly, the sky turned gray – almost black, and fearsome bolts of white lightning split it like cracks in a vase.

The wind that kicked up then was so strong, Griff’s horse was blown over and would have crushed him if he hadn’t repositioned quickly. The gale blew them all further and further from the castle, and fighting it was hopeless. Some of the men were blown into rocks or trees and dashed to pieces like porcelain dolls. Griff’s man Dick Morrigan lost an entire mouth of teeth, and Duck broke ribs. Finally, a bush torn from its roots by the wind struck Griff in the shoulder and took a piece of flesh from his neck. There was no hiding behind hills or great boulders or woods – wherever Griff and his men went, the wind followed. That was because this was no ordinary wind. It was magic, Griff had realized, and instantly drew his troops back.

Griff had gone in to battle already in a state of dark anxiety that should have been sublime happiness. A letter arrived from his aunt and his betrothed Daenerys Targaryen, finally, just before their departure from Dragonstone. The first part of it was nothing but ill news – Dany wouldn’t leave Essos until slavery was ended in the Free Cities (and who knew when that would be), and worse, she could not bear children. She called it a curse, but Griff didn’t believe in such nonsense. Dany was rumored to be very small in stature. Something must have happened during the birth of her first child that destroyed the necessary parts, that was all. Following that, however, the contents of the letter had made him ecstatic. Dany was sending him Ser Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold, who had known all there was to know about their family, as well as the one that usurped them. More importantly, she would allow Griff to take a second wife. She told him to consult his gods about it…but of course he already had been doing so for months.

So many times he had prayed to the Maiden, over and over, day after day, for some sign or reason regarding his love for Arianne. It grew stronger, no matter how he tried to resist it, no matter what Duck and Septa Lemore kept saying and doing to make him withdraw from her. Duck knew Griff wouldn’t lay with a whore, so instead he somehow got serving girls and milkmaids to flirt with Griff salaciously. One even slipped a hand into his bathwater, running it up his thigh and to his groin before he gently removed it, smiled, and sent her on her way. It was just that he needed to “sow his oats,” Duck put it. Once he had a taste of another girl or two, he wouldn’t be so hung up on the Dornish princess. Duck didn’t understand, and neither did Lemore, to whom he finally confessed about the affair, which was becoming rather conspicuous anyway. Lemore told him that his love for Dany would be stronger and better because it would be a choice…this passionate whirlwind romance with Arianne was destined to fail. That had made Griff upset, and he refused to talk to her about it again.

Arianne was more to him than just a stirring in his loins. It wasn’t some reflex like an itch or a sneeze. It was love, not just for her body, but her voice, her mind, her spirit and her soul. She was in his thoughts constantly and the joy of thinking about her filled him with a brilliant inner light. No amount of prayer could make it go away. Daily he asked the Maiden, _why? Why let me fall so hard when I can’t be with her? Please help me understand what it means!_ Now, at last, he understood. Dany’s news was all the sign he needed. He would marry Arianne, and she would give him sons and daughters as her aunt had given his father. No more than twenty minutes after reading the letter, he had gone to her, but Arianne hadn’t been as happy as he had expected.

“Don’t you see,” he had said, holding her in his arms. “This means we can be together.”

Arianne leaned into him, resting her sweet head on his chest. “Oh my king,” she said, her voice apprehensive. Griff kissed her forehead.

“I won’t lay with Dany,” he told her. “She’ll be like a sister, and a general in my army…albeit one I can’t replace. But I will only share a bed with you…I swear it!”

Arianne pulled back and looked at him. “My sweet Griff…that’s not what worries me. Of course you may lay with her…it’s your right. I don’t mind that. I know where your heart is.”

“Then what is it?”

“I told you what happened to my brother…”

Arianne’s brother Quentyn had crossed the sea in hopes of marrying Dany himself. He had tried to release her dragons, whom Dany had locked up for safety reasons before she was able to control them. One of them had burned him so badly he had died, and Dany had sent his father, Prince Doran Martell, his bones, and a promise to compensate him for the loss, though Arianne did not know what that meant.

“Dany didn’t have control of that. She would never disapprove of you…why would she?”

Arianne threw his arms off her. “Disapprove of me, nothing,” she said, suddenly angry. “Why does she get to approve or not approve?”

Griff’s heart had hurt. He didn’t understand why she was so upset, until it occurred to him: for Arianne, this meant living with the danger of being torched alive – just for doing her part to perpetuate the Targaryen line. What risk did Dany take? Arianne proceeded to tell him of things she heard about Dany, ugly stories that couldn’t be true, yet they must have come from somewhere. Varys could neither confirm nor refute these, but he did point out that she was called _Khaleesi Diwe_ , which was Dothraki for “wet queen.” What did that mean? Griff couldn’t stand to see his princess upset with him. He would have promised her anything in that moment. It turned out, all she asked was to write to Dany and demand more information…and to offer independence to the Kingdom of Dorne. There was no time to bring it up to the council, of course. Instead, it sat eating away at him throughout the sail and the march. Meeting the gouty, somewhat craven Prince Doran did not ease his mind about it.

Now, he had lost an almost certain victory. Once they got far enough away, the phantom wind did halt completely. The ominous, evil clouds departed and the sun shone in a clear blue sky. Griff didn’t want to give in, and the Gods bless him, Duck didn’t either. Griff had lost his cloak in the storm as had many other men, so he lost a great deal of blood from his wound and had gotten dizzy. It was difficult to think. He used a hunk of sod to cover his wound, thinking, _a commander must adapt when plans change – come on Aegon what to do?_ Then out of nowhere, it was as if the Crone whispered into his ear that they could route back toward King’s Landing, and take the train carrying the loot from Highgarden on its way to the city. Then they would have the grain and goods from the Reach, and maybe the gold as well. They worked fast and overcame the loot train on the Rose Road, though the gold had already made it too far. Wagons and barrels loaded with corn, wheat, barley, oats, ale, cheese, fruits and vegetables weighed down the Lannisters who bore them, so even though Griff’s army was tired and beaten down by that horrifying wind, they were able to subdue them. Best of all, they captured Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.

Griff gathered those of Tarly’s men who remained and made a peace offering. Loras Tyrell was the true warden of the Reach, and as long as they bent the knee to Griff, and swore fealty to him and to Loras, they could take most of the loot back to the farms of the Reach. However, Griff was so angry – he almost didn’t want these men with him at all. He stood upon a knoll with Ser Loras, the burly Franklyn Flowers and Duck, giving the same speech he had given the Storm Lords, but the feeling of glory and pride he had felt at Storm’s End was not there. He had lost so very many men, and had had to leave their bodies to blow around like tumbleweeds in order to catch up with this blasted loot train. He had nearly been beheaded by a bush, for the sake of the Gods! He didn’t have Connington with him, and in fact, his foster father who had raised him from childhood was probably going to die sooner than later – and all alone. The wound in his neck stabbed him with pain every time he moved his head, and he was covered from head to toe with dirt that had blown all over. He was growing out his silver hair now that there was no need to dye it, and it reached his shoulders when he could make it lay down. It was not lying down now, that was sure. He must have reminded these Lannister soldiers of the Mad King more than ever. It was no wonder that Tarly refused, at long last, to kneel.

“You will not kneel?” Griff asked the old lord, who had stepped forward. He was a bald man, long and narrow, with a short grey beard. His breastplate was grey steel and bore the sigil of the archer in red. His expression was cruel and defiant as he spoke.

“I already have a queen,” he said.

“Traitor!” Ser Loras said angrily. “You swore an oath to House Tyrell…or do you not remember?”

“It seems to me your allegiances are a little flexible, my Lord. So why not do the right thing and put them back where they belong?” Griff said, trying to keep calm, though Ser Loras’s passion was contagious. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“There are no easy choices in war,” Lord Tarly said. “Say what you will about Queen Myrcella…she was born in Westeros. Lived here all her life. You, on the other hand, have no ties to this land – an army of bastards and foreign sellswords at your back…you’re no Aegon. You are a pretender – nothing more.”

Griff felt his face grow hot. Suddenly, the green meadow behind Tarly and his men turned red. The sky too turned a shade of crimson. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“Send this traitor to the Wall, your grace,” Duck said. “The Black Bastard has plenty of ties to this land and plenty of need for soldiers.”

“You cannot send me to the Wall,” Tarly said. “You are not my king.”

“Frank,” Griff said through clenched teeth. “Seize him.”

He drew his sword. Franklin stepped forward to grab Tarly with Loras happily joining him. They pushed the lord of Horn Hill to his knees over a large granite boulder that stuck out from the grass. Suddenly, a voice called out from the gathering of soldiers, many of whom were already kneeling. The voice came from one who was not.

“You’ll have to take my head, too,” the voice said. A tall strapping young man with sandy hair and eyes like Lord Randyll’s stepped forward.

“Step back and shut your mouth,” Randyll hissed.

“Who are you, now?” Griff asked, growing angrier.

“A stupid boy…” Randyll said before the youth cut him off.

“I am Ser Dickon Tarly, son of Randyll Tarly.”

_Of course_. Griff took a breath. “I have no wish to end your house, Ser,” he said, his neck throbbing. He cursed the boy inwardly for making him turn his head. “Just bend the knee, and you may return to Horn Hill as its lord…”

“I will not,” Dickon said.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

“Think of your family, if you will not think of yourself,” Duck said. “Think of what will become of your mother and sisters.”

Griff understood what Duck was doing. He was pointing out that to punish these men was to punish their family. They would be unprotected in a time of war. But what could Griff do? If he locked them in the black cells, their women would still go unprotected. That was the price in war. He had given them a choice, and they had made it. Griff stepped forward as Dickon was brought to his knees next to his father.

“Lord Randyll Tarly. Dickon Tarly. I, Aegon of House Targaryen, sixth of his name, king of the Andals and the First Men, rightful lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm, in the name of the Gods, sentence you to die.”

Then, breathing in through the nose, he swung two times and made an end to it.[1]

Chapter 2: Jaime

Stoney Sept had improved since Jaime had last seen it. Most of the Brotherhood Without Banners had departed to run riot through the Riverlands, but he suspected they had funded some of the changes that were visible as he and Bronn rode in. The Peach, its most successful inn and brothel, had not only a new roof, but a new door, painted an orangey-pink color, and a whole new wing to the south filled with polished benches decorated with carved hearts (or maybe peaches?) and a beautiful new bar made from a giant oak. Inside it still smelled like tree sap, and it had not developed that vinegary rotten smell that old taverns got. As soon as they sat down, two busty young things swished over, offering brown bread with herbed butter and bitter ale…among other things, which they had to refuse for the moment.

Really they offered it all to Bronn, or the new Lord Stokeworth – on an errand for his wife who heard there was a new dressmaker at Stoney Sept, rumored to be the best in the South. With him was not Ser Jaime Lannister, wanted for hanging by the Brotherhood and their dark mistress, but Bronn’s man Gil, a servant. Jaime had cropped his hair short and colored it dark brown with a dye made of crushed walnut shells. He grew out a beard and dyed that too, and made sure he never took off his gloves. His golden hand would be a dead giveaway, but that was why they chose to meet Brienne of Tarth at Stoney Sept – because Jaime Lannister would be a fool to go there of all places.

Jaime did feel like a fool, sitting there hunched over a tankard of ale while Bronn flirted with another serving girl who brought them cheese and sliced apples. His stomach was roiling. The closer he came to seeing Brienne, hulking beast that she was, the worse it got. He could have done with some peppermint tea, but instead he was downing the ale rather too quickly, and trying not to vomit or pick at the newly-made cut across his ear. When she appeared, however, donning the same dented cobalt blue armor over a velvet doublet, his stomach suddenly stopped churning and he felt quite well. By Brienne’s side was a man, even taller than she, which was saying something. He wore a rough-spun brown hooded robe, tied with a braided rope belt, and a bowl hung around his neck on a hempen rope. His face was mostly concealed by the hood, so Jaime couldn’t make out who he was – but he had a terrible feeling. When Brienne saw Bronn’s shield – painted green with the sigil of the lamb holding a goblet – she came over, smiling a brief dopey smile that quickly twitched to a halt. She and the hooded man sat across from them, and Jaime knew instantly that the man in the robe was the Hound.

Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, was supposed to be dead, though an imposter donning his helm was said to be working for Lady Stoneheart, the Brotherhood’s grim boss, who terrorized the Kingdoms, hunting down and hanging anyone who she called an enemy. She had once been Lady Catlyn Stark, whom members of the Brotherhood had somehow brought back after she was murdered along with her son Robb Stark, the King in the North. But according to Brienne, Catlyn had been replaced by a hideous monster, bent on revenge without reason, with yellow skin, clouded eyes and a face that was a ruin of jagged open cuts, who held the gaping wound in her throat closed in order to talk in a rasping, malicious voice. She held Brienne’s young squire Podrick captive, and in order to free him, Brienne was tasked with producing Jaime to be hung along with all Lannisters and their allies. The Hound was certainly on her list too, as he was rumored to have kidnapped her daughter Sansa Stark after serving the Lannisters for years. Bronn would be high on her list as well – thankfully he wasn’t a coward. Together, Jaime and Bronn had been assigned to find Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, who had deserted the Night’s Watch, and “bring him to justice” as his sister queen regent Cersei put it, but those plans were a ruse.

The Hound must have indeed been hiding out on the Quiet Isle, for he appeared much like the “begging brothers” of the Faith who went from kingdom to kingdom spreading the word of the Seven in exchange for a few coppers or a crust of bread. Brienne held out her enormous left hand, remembering that Jaime was now permanently left-handed. She had been there when his hand had been taken, so she should remember, but it felt like a kindness, and an idiotic smile cracked Jaime’s face. It hurt.

“It’s good to see you Ser,” Brienne said. “That’s an angry-looking cut though…” She had a woman’s voice, even if that was all that was womanly about her. The scar on her cheek, from a bite wound in a fight with the same sort who maimed Jaime, had faded quite a bit. Now he had one to match her…and what a story he would have to tell about that. He introduced her to Bronn, who immediately stated how much Jaime had talked about her…damn the man. Neither needed an introduction to the Hound.

“I’m glad you’re well…but keeping rather unexpected company,” Jaime said quietly. “Though I hardly recognized you Sandor Clegane.”

“This might help,” the Hound said, removing his hood. There was the face Jaime remembered – half hideously burned, the teeth visible through the ruined cheek, where his monstrous brother, Gregor Clegane had shoved his face into a fire when they were children. “Might as well – don’t think I’ll be getting much in the way of alms from this lot.”

The Hound glanced around. Stoney Sept was populated heavily with followers of the god Rh’llor. Even in the Peach, there was an image of a burning heart hanging from the stone walls.

“The Hound is doing penance for his sins, having spent a year in service with Elder Brother,” Brienne said.

“Forgive me, Sandor, but that has to be no small penance,” Jaime said, noticing that in addition to a shaved head, he had bare feet. Enormous, ugly bare feet.

“No small sins. I’m called Brother Red-Dog by some now, but more often I’m called a cunt,” the Hound said. “The hangwoman’s red friends killed some friends of mine from the Isle, so it’s more revenge than penance, but Elder Brother needn’t know.”

“Fuck penance,” Bronn said. “I’m in it for this infamous loot. Regardless, what say we have a seat and get the plan straight…before we draw any fucking eyes.”

Bronn was right. There was a feeling of unease at the Hound’s presence. He pulled up his hood again, but that didn’t help much. Quickly, they shared with each other what they knew about Sansa, Podrick Payne, and especially Lady Stoneheart, about whom only Brienne knew much at all. “Everything that was once Lady Catlyn Stark is gone from her,” Brienne said almost tearfully. “She is nothing more than a monster, and the Brotherhood follows her blindly because they feel she’s been chosen to replace Beric Dondarrion. Bloodmagic brought her back, as bloodmagic killed King Renly. It is an abomination…and it will stop.”

What Jaime told them next made all of their eyes widen – even the Hound’s. A skinny young woman claiming to be Arya Stark was the reason for the wound on his face. He had woken one night to her atop him, holding a dagger to his throat and a tiny sword to his eyeball.

“Needle,” said the Hound, with a wistful look that turned into a smile.

Jaime shuddered thinking about it. The girl had smelled like a dog ate cheese before taking a bath in horse piss, rocking on top of him, forcing him to sing to her. He supposed if he would have hurled her across the room, she would have slit his throat. They made a plan while quaffing ale and joking about old times, trying to look like any other tavern patrons. Jaime was happy when the Peach’s customers began to grow loud and raucous. He didn’t need to tell Brienne that this was about penance for him too. She knew the secrets behind that. He rubbed his temple, which had begun to throb, when suddenly the Hound turned to Brienne.

“Well are you going to tell him,” he said. “Or have you gone craven like I thought?”

Brienne looked helpless for a moment…a rare sight indeed. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled. She stood and addressed Jaime.

“Ser Jaime, I must be truthful with you, if we are to be companions in this task,” she said.

“Truthful?” Jaime said.

“I’ve been through much trial since King Renly’s dying, as you well know, and I find there is one image that consistently brings me joy, no matter when I think upon it, and that image, that one image, is of your naked flesh…”

Bronn spit out a mouthful of ale next to him. The Hound was grinning. Jaime felt as though his face was on fire, but remembering the time they had been forced to bathe together, following Jaime’s escape from Robb Stark’s camp and his maiming, did make him smile too. Still, he couldn’t believe what she was saying, and he attempted unsuccessfully to interrupt her.

“I don’t wish to be crude, Ser,” Brienne continued. “I mean only to put aside falsehood and embrace the truth…”

“I think you’re quite drunk,” Jaime said.

“Love is a drunken state, Ser. Drunken and mad…”

“There are people about!”

“What better place to profess my love than surrounded by the peace and pastorality of the smallfolk…”[2]

Jaime heard a whore shout _suck on these big tits,_ and he shook his head. Bronn’s face was buried in his hands. The Hound, or Red-Dog, or whatever, looked greatly satisfied. 

“I realize it’s to no end. You are bound to service, as am I…” Brienne said.

“Oh I don’t know…” Bronn said.

“Shut up Bronn,” said Jaime. “Brienne, you need say no more. I appreciate the honesty, and I…”

Before he could go on, they heard shouts – not of revelry, but of terror. Someone in the Peach screamed, _It’s the first order… **[3]**_ and suddenly every man and woman in the tavern was either scurrying to hide or arming themselves. The “First Order” of the Faith Militant had risen out of the ashes following the destruction of the Sept of Baelor by wildfire. Cersei, in her typical short-sightedness, thought blowing up the Sept would rid the Kingdoms of the High Sparrow and his followers. True, the High Sparrow had gone to Seven Hells where he belonged, but not every militant follower of the Seven went down with him. There would always be an outcrop of fanatics, hoping to gain the Gods’ favor, as well as the power that came with it.

A group of grey-robed men – bullies dressed in the garb of righteousness – burst into the tavern room of the Peach. The foremost had the telltale seven-pointed star carved into his forehead, a pretty young woman’s hair in his fist. She was crying in pain, and a single breast had fallen from her bodice. “Find any whores and seize them,” he ordered the others. They held various crude weapons, splashed with gore: chains, knives, wooden clubs.

The Hound jumped up then and stood before them, blocking the way.

“Step aside good brother,” the grey-robed man said. He had small black eyes set deep in his face like seeds in dough. “These sinners need cleansing.”

“The Mother tells us to have mercy on sinners…perhaps it’s you that needs cleansing,” the Hound said in a voice that was uncharacteristically smooth and gentle.

“The Father calls for judgment upon fornicators and whores. This place is a den of sin and heresy.”

“Come fellows, set aside your weapons. Let us drink and enjoy this beautiful autumn day together. My companions and I will buy you all a cider…”

“Step aside, brother, or there will be violence.”

The Hound sighed and bowed his head. Under his breath, Jaime heard him say, _Well…enough of the cat and mouse shit. **[4]**_ He reached under his robe and pulled, seemingly from nowhere, his gigantic sword – the same he used when he guarded Joffrey so long ago.

“I choose violence,” he said.[5]

The grey-robed thugs charged, and the Hound started swinging. In an instant, Jaime was on his feet along with Brienne and Bronn. These fanatics were better suited to fighting defenseless women and fat-bellied septons, it was quickly apparent. But Jaime was fighting left-handed, and though the recently-murdered Ilyn Payne had done an effective job of re-training him, he was still somewhat rusty. At one point, his sword was knocked out of his hand, and when he went to retrieve it, he found a huge fish knife against his throat. However, before this First Order freak could utter even one word of zealous nonsense, his head exploded suddenly in a gush of skull, blood and brain. But the weapon that saved Jaime was not that of the Hound, or Bronn, or even Brienne. It was a giant hammer, and the one who wielded it was the very image of a young Robert Baratheon – so much so that Jaime considered he might have died and gone to Seven Hells already. The portly man standing beside him would know Robert as well as any, but he wielded a sword – a sword on fire. He pulled up the sleeve of his red robe and reached out to help Jaime rise.

“Thoros of Myr?” Jaime asked, just to be sure.

“The one,” the red priest answered. “And this brave lad is Gendry. Welcome, Ser Jaime, to your salvation…”

Chapter 3: Griff

“You know she doesn’t blame you, your grace,” Septa Lemore was saying. “There was nothing you could have done…”

She placed her hand on Griff’s upper back, which was bent over the desk in his chambers as he wrote a frantic and probably poorly-written letter to Dany. He truly wished he had never written the last one, questioning her virtue. He couldn’t help feeling a little upset with Arianne for encouraging him to do it, not to mention cornering him into offering the possibility of making Dorne independent. He still loved her, but this anxiety was partly her doing.

When Ser Barristan Selmy arrived, they had feasted him with roasted game hens, venison stew, herbed roasted potatoes and carrots, oat bread with blackberry preserves and butter, shoulder of beef slow roasted with thyme and onions, biscuits with honey and soft cheese, honeyed duck and boiled salmon with capers and cream sauce. The kitchen staff were so busy that none of the girls had time to flirt shamelessly with Griff. Ser Barristan was older than Griff pictured, but he still held himself and spoke like a true knight. He wore black armor emblazoned with the three-headed dragon in gold, just like he might have worn when he served Griff’s mad grandfather. He told Griff of Dany’s accomplishments and struggles, but mostly they talked about Griff’s father, Rhaegar. This thrilled Griff, as Connington had talked very rarely about his father. When he was still drinking, he would slur to little Griff about what a great warrior and strategist Rhaegar had been. Once he was sober, however, Connington tended to shut down the subject when Griff brought it up.

Barristan, on the other hand, told him how Rhaegar would go amongst the smallfolk where the bards played and play his harp for coins, that he would sometimes sing to the people as he rode past them. He insisted he had not raped Lyanna Stark, but he didn’t have much explanation for why Rhaegar took up with the Northern maid. He did explain, as he had to Dany, that Ned Stark had not approved of the slaying of Griff’s sister and mother. In fact, he had practically thrown the job of King’s Hand right back in Robert’s face when he ordered assassins after Dany, and ordered the killers called off once Robert was in his deathbed. He was falsely executed for protecting Robert’s interests, identifying Cersei’s son Joffrey as a bastard, which had been called treason. Whatever wrongs Ned Stark had done to Griff’s family, the Starks had paid a debt much higher than what they owed.

Griff had downed a few cups when he asked Barristan about the name “wet queen” and what it meant. The old knight had sighed deeply and a dark looked had crossed his face. When he told Griff that Dany had been kidnapped, imprisoned, and then raped and beaten within an inch of her life by Dothraki Khals, Griff had nearly gotten sick all over his trencher. The name was given because, after her violation and flogging, Dany had set the temple of the Khals afire, emerged from it again unburnt, and then climbed upon the back of her dragon naked, covered in her own blood. Arianne wept. _So horrible,_ she had cried. Yet, Dany had taken the surviving Dothraki as her subjects and her army after what had happened. From what Barristan said about her, she had a way of taking what belonged to her enemies in order to turn them into friends. _I left…I sailed west_ , Griff had said, no longer able to eat. Why should she bring her dragons over to aid him in his cause when he hadn’t been there to protect her in her time of need? Griff didn’t blame her if she decided never to come. Ser Barristan had tried to comfort him, saying it never occurred to the queen to hold Griff responsible, but Griff felt like a six-foot pile of horse dung.

Once he finished his letter, Griff went to the Sept to pray before joining the war council in the chamber of the painted table. They needed to figure out what to do about Euron Greyjoy, and Griff would be naming his full kingsguard, plus he needed to address the topic of Dorne before Varys somehow figured it out first and squealed. He prayed to the Smith to help him fix this mess, and to the Mother, over and over, to forgive him for abandoning Dany, his only family and his true betrothed, raped and grotesquely scarred because he had left her behind.

When the war council commenced, Griff started with the least painful part, granting the honor of being on his kingsguard to Ser Loras Tyrell, Franklyn Flowers (who he knighted on the spot), Morty Boggs, Dick Morrigan, and Sers Lomas and Andrew Estermont of the Stormlands, with Ser Rolly Duckfield, of course, as Lord Commander. Griff wasn’t sure that Connington would approve of these choices any more than he would approve of Dorne, but it couldn’t be helped. Finally, he pinned the official broach of the Hand of the King on the jet-black doublet of Ser Barristan Selmy.

“I know your loyalty is with Daenerys, but please accept this, Ser. I swear I will make it an honor worthy of the legend you truly are,” Griff said, half expecting the old knight to refuse, but he didn’t.

“I believe you will, my prince, and I know you will make a gallant husband to queen Daenerys – that you have shown me.”

All at the table applauded, but then the happy parts were over. Ser Loras Tyrell said that which most likely reflected what all the others were thinking about Dorne. “Forgive me, your grace,” he said. “But supposing every kingdom begins demanding their independence?”

“The princess isn’t demanding…she’s asking,” Griff said. “The others are free to ask as well – including the Reach.”[6] The Tyrells had a bad history with Dorne, Griff knew from reading the histories, but he couldn’t let that become an issue. “I think that Myrcella Baratheon doesn’t want to be queen, and I’d be willing to bet she’d take being wedded to Trystane Martell and Queen of Dorne over fighting us.”

“Maybe so, but Myrcella isn’t pulling the strings at the moment,” Varys said. “Cersei hopes to be rid of Trystane, and it’s likely that she is offering her poor daughter to Euron in order to get his allegiance.”

“I know,” Griff groaned, not feeling very kingly. “I’ve thought long and hard since the loot train battle, and I think it’s clear we cannot fight him directly. Not as long as he has this…magic, or whatever it is.”

“Dragons might be effective against whatever he’s doing,” Duck said. “Seems to me the only thing that can take on magic is…magic.”

“Frankly, Duck, I don’t feel enthused about pressuring Dany at this particular moment – and I can’t go back to Essos…”

“It will look like retreat,” Duck said, nodding.

“What I’m thinking is we have to go where Euron won’t, and right now that’s looking like the Riverlands,” Griff said. The Lannister troops sent to take on the Brotherhood Without Banners weren’t having much success, despite the numerous smallfolk they had taken to Harrenhall and tortured for information. For some reason, Euron wasn’t having any part of that conflict, despite the proximity of the Twins and Riverrun to the Iron Islands.

Harry Strickland stated the obvious. “Forgive me, your grace, but the Iron Islands are… _right there_ …”

“I know that, and that’s why we won’t march. Marching did nothing for the Lannister army. I’m guessing the Brotherhood aren’t much on marching. But I’d like to find out what they are into, if Euron’s avoiding them.”

“My birds suggest that the Brotherhood may be splitting into factions. One faction in particular has developed a habit of hanging Freys and Lannisters and their allies without a trial. They say the specter who commands them in place of Ser Beric Dondarrion is a monstrous woman of a horrid nature, virtually inhuman.”

“Magical, maybe?” Duck asked.

“I want to send an envoy. I can’t offer my allegiance to heretics, but I can get the Lannisters to leave them alone, as long as they play fair. Someone must go and find out who this hangwoman is and how the Brotherhood is managing to evade my enemies better than I have.”

Ser Franklyn Flowers stood up. “Your grace, it would be my particular honor if you chose me for this mission. My face is unknown among the river folk, but I probably understand them better than most…and I know brigands too. Heretics they may be, but I do believe we’re of a type in other ways.”

Griff agreed, and decided to send Frank to Fairmarket, a town that lay midway between the two most important castles in the Riverlands. He would take his choice of men for additional protection. It would be a good opportunity to earn the title recently bestowed upon him.

“On the subject of the Riverlands, it might be noted that my birds believe Sansa Stark is not only living, but married to the heir to the Vale,” Varys pointed out. “If she is truly Lady of the Vale, then being niece to the Tullys, she might also take an interest in this matter.”

“I thought of that,” Griff said. “I also think that if all the Stark men are dead, then Sansa should be heir to Winterfell as well. From what you’ve been telling me, the North isn’t fully behind the Boltons. If Lady Sansa were to reclaim the North, then that could only help us, don’t you think?”

“Sansa Stark certainly has as much reason to hate Cersei as you or I do…maybe more,”[7] said Lady Olenna Tyrell.

“That’s right, my lady,” Griff said. He had really gotten to like the old bird. If Ser Barristan had never come, he would have been tempted to make her his Hand. Wouldn’t Connington have loved that.

They decided to march on Winterfell, sailing to White Harbor first and striking up an allegiance with the Manderlys. Varys was certain they would desert Roose Bolton, who had aligned with the Lannisters and the Freys in the murder of Robb and Catlyn Stark. Griff would appeal to Sansa Stark and offer to reunite the North in her name. Perhaps they would offer her Cersei’s head as a special gift, although Olenna seemed to think the Lady Sansa would cringe at the offer. She would rather save Cersei’s head for the walls of Highgarden anyway.

There was one more mission Griff wanted to assign, and he chose Morty, though he would have liked to have him in the North with them. He needed someone who he trusted, and Ser Loras would be too well-known in the Reach. He waited until everyone had taken their leave except for Morty, Duck and Selmy.

“I need you to go to Oldtown, Morty,” Griff said. “I know it’s asking a lot…”

“No task is too great for my king, your grace. I live to serve,” Morty said.

Griff smiled…he knew he was right to take on Morty, though he wasn’t some famous knight from a famous family. “Thanks Morty…I’d just like to know what’s going on there. Besides, I’ve been without a Grand Maester, and that bodes ill.”

“You’d like me to go to the Citadel then?”

“Yes, and…find Connington. I want him back.”

“I see, your grace… of course,” Morty said sympathetically.

“Find Jon and a maester who knows medicine and can care for him into his final days. I never should have sent him there.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Barristan said. “But the greyscale is very contagious.”

“I know. We will build a quarantined chamber for him. When he gets far enough along, we’ll do as he wishes. But I’d rather he die here, or in the Roost, when it’s time. Not at the hands of that Ironborn sorcerer.”

“I understand, your grace,” Barristan said. “And you have my sympathies…”

Arianne looked particularly beautiful – so much so that Griff forgot immediately that he was a little angry with her. She wore a gown he’d never seen before. The color reminded him of the green hills of the island, when they were covered with morning dew that reflected the blue of the sky. The fabric was a thin, flowing silk that hugged her at her waist and fell like waves in the sea to her feet. At the top, silk was woven over her breasts and wrapped around her shoulders, drawing Griff’s eyes to a gold necklace in the shape of a little snake that she wore so that the snake’s snout peeked between her breasts. Another little golden snake held her hair out of her face, and teardrops of peridot and turquoise hung from her ears. She had lit a few candles in his chambers, and the soft yellow light made her brown skin glow.

She kissed him softly in greeting, and asked how the war council had gone –of course Griff knew what she meant.

“They’re open to it,” Griff said, sighing. “Especially once I pointed out that it might draw Myrcella away. Obviously Loras and Olenna weren’t happy.”

“You don’t need to make everyone happy my love,” said Arianne, touching his cheek.

“I’d like to make you happy…”

“You can do as you like, sweetheart. You are the king, remember?”

Griff wanted to make her understand. “That’s not the sort of king I want to be. I can’t just go about imposing my will on everyone.”

“That’s what Daenerys does…she’s rather my hero for that…”[8]

Griff turned away from her to pour her a cup, handing it to her before filling a cup for himself rather full.

“Are you upset with me?” Arianne asked. Of course she knew what he was feeling. He couldn’t hide anything from her. Part of Griff wished she was more transparent…and part of him was glad she wasn’t.

“We’ve decided to sail to White Harbor and march toward Winterfell to make allegiance with the Lady of the Vale, Sansa Stark. We leave in a fortnight.”

“Such a long journey…”

“Yes I know.” Griff looked down at his cup. The smell of wine reminded him of when he was a little boy. Before he stopped drinking altogether, Connington carried that smell with him all the time. He wondered if Connington was angry with him for sending him to the Citadel. He wondered if he was safe, if he felt like Griff had abandoned him.

“Are you unhappy, my sweet king…what can I do?” Arianne came close behind him and wound her arms around his waist, kissing his shoulder.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave you again. I left Dany, and look what happened,” Griff said, turning to look Arianne in the eyes. “If something like that happened to you in my absence…I’m afraid of what I might do.”

Arianne put both hands on his face, gently. “Griff…you are Aegon Targaryen. You are the blood of the dragon. Stop hiding from it. If I am hurt…if I die…then avenge me. With fire and blood.”

Griff shook his head. “I can’t bear thinking of not ever seeing you again.”

“Then don’t think…”

She put down her cup and kissed him deeply, wetly, stroking his hair. She smelled like lemons, sage and cinnamon. Griff pulled away from her a moment to take a long drink and get rid of his own cup. Then he took her in his arms and held her very tight.

“Tonight,” Arianne said in his ear, “I want you to lie me down and take me as you would when I am your queen.”

Griff looked in her eyes and could see what she meant. She pulled at the fabric of the shoulder of her dress, and the top of it fell off, revealing the magical heaven of her breasts. Griff kissed her feverishly, using one hand to massage one healthy, gorgeous breast and the other to help her undress him. When they were both nude, she drew him toward the bed, which he only now noticed she had covered with the fragrant petals of tuberoses from Aegon’s garden. They lay down and rubbed their legs together like crickets while they continued to kiss each other all over. Arianne brought his hands between her legs, where he found her warm and wet. The memory of how she looked, smelled and tasted down there filled him with overwhelming desire, and in seconds, he was hard as stone. Arianne clutched his member in her hand, bringing it from where it stood against his belly down against her wet softness. He slid into her very slowly, and at once, the feeling took him away to a place where there was nothing but Arianne, only Arianne: her skin, her hair, her mouth, her flesh. They were wound together, grown into each other’s bodies like the vine that takes the tree. He cried out when the concussion of pleasure wracked him, emptying himself inside her. Then they were both gasping for breath, slick with sweat. It had been so fast…but yet, when Griff regained his mind and began to slip out of her, he felt that he was still hard. It didn’t have to be over.

They kept on for over an hour, their bodies rocking the bed, so that the sheets began to come off the mattress. When Arianne came, she kicked and writhed beneath him and made noises like a crying babe, after which Griff buried his face in her moist and sweet-smelling neck, hoping to hide the tears that came to his eyes. _Oh how I love you my king,_ she moaned in his ear while he nuzzled her tenderly, and all the anxiety and insecurity, all the sadness and frustration of the past few days, melted away like sugar on his tongue.

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones,_ Season 7, Episode 5: “Eastwatch,” HBO, 2017.

[2] Best, Ben, Jody Hill and Danny McBride. _Eastbound and Down_ , Season 1, Episode 2: “Chapter 2,” HBO, 2009.

[3] Abrams, J. J. _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_ , Lucasfilm, 2015.

[4] Barker, Clive. _Hellraiser_ , Cinemarque, 1987.

[5] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 8: “No One,” HBO, 2016.

[6] Benioff & Weiss. Game of Thrones, Season 6, Episode 9: “Battle of the Bastards,” HBO, 2016.

[7] Benioff & Weiss. Game of Thrones, Season 7, Episode 2: “Stormborn,” HBO, 2017.

[8] Parker, Trey and Matt Stone. _South Park_ , Season 7, Episode 13: “Butt Out,” Comedy Central, 2003.


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